Amidst the jabber of the unfamiliar Hungarian language, I finally heard familiar words. I sighed in relief, as after two days of understanding not one word of Hungarian, these words had meaning to me: familiarity in a foreign world.
It took me a minute to register that the sentence that had just been spoken wasn’t in English. When I realized that it was actually in Hebrew, my heart jumped. A Hebrew teacher was standing in front of me, and I watched, mesmerized, as manners reminded me exactly of my own Hebrew teacher’s back home. “מי שיודע עברית, בבקשה ללכת איתי” She announced. My hand shot up excitedly to inform the teacher that I intended to be a part of her class. She smiled as three of my classmates followed us to class, content with the turnout of Americans who wanted to join her Hebrew class.
This hebrew classroom wasn’t decked out in Israeli flags and Hebrew signs like mine is in Baltimore. The brown walls bore no tributes to Israel; in fact, there was no blue color anywhere in sight. Instead, an unfamiliar classroom was displayed in front of me. The Hebrew that spewed out of the teacher’s mouth instantly comforted me, however.
In class, it felt as though I wasn’t 5,000 miles from home, as though I wasn’t with peers I had never met before, as though I was finally the same as everyone else. No longer was I explaining myself three times or smiling and nodding when I couldn’t understand someone but didn’t want to clarify. No longer did I feel the frustration of not being understood and not being able to understand. I settled deeper into my chair as I actively participated in the lively discussion that was unfolding in the classroom. My guilt of speaking English fluently while my Hungarian friends struggled for words melted away, as in this classroom we were leveled; none of us knew a lot of Hebrew, but we could speak enough. When the bell rang to signify the end of class, I proudly marched out of class with a huge “תודה רבה” to the teacher: exactly what I do in America.
